the lucky one
by our dancing days
Summary: "Darling, Rose, you aren't quite ready for your close-up - you're scared of what you'll find." Rose Weasley, Scorpius Malfoy, and living in the headlines. / freeverse, for chocolat kisses.


**Title: **The Lucky One

**Summary: **"Darling, Rose, you aren't quite ready for your close-up - you're scared of what you'll find." Rose Weasley, Scorpius Malfoy, and living in the headlines. / Freeverse for chocolat kisses.

**Prompt: **Advent Calendar challenge - RoseScorpius and 'The Lucky One'

**Day: **Ten lords a-leaping, nine ladies dancing, eight maids a-milking, seven swans a-swimming, six geese a-laying, five gold rings... four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree.

**Recipient: **chocolat kisses

**Notes: **Oh, it's late, it's very, very late! I sincerely hope you can forgive me, **chocolat kisses - **I was whisked away to France on the 12th, which was when I was going to (belatedly) post your fic, however, I haven't been able to post it until today. I sincerely hope you enjoy it, however late and long it is!

* * *

"'_Cause you don't feel pretty, you just feel used, and all the young things line up to take your place." - Taylor Swift, _The Lucky One.

* * *

Look up, Rosie,

and hold onto your hat.

You can allow yourself one clichéd Hollywood moment.

**Let go!**

Stretch out your arms, and _laugh, _beautiful.

Spin in circles,

tilt up your chin,

and close your eyes against the New York rain.

Spin and watch all those people

chasing fortune and fame,

disappearing into hotels and restaurants and theatres.

They'll ignore you, Rosie,

but you won't mind.

Your red hair is plastered to your pale face,

and your cheeks hurt from smiling,

and your coat is

_weighing_ you down,

and honey, you honestly couldn't care less.

New York beams down at you,

and your eyes **glisten**,

with rainwater and maybe even tears.

You're going to be okay,

Rosie dear,

as long as you hang on for the ride.

.

Rosie, dear;

well, they all say you are going to be famous.

You are going to be _special_,

and you're going to love it.

But that isn't quite true, is it?

The tabloids spend so long

expecting you to be just like your **mother** dearest,

but they just can't get one thought

through their empty heads;

_you aren't._

Libraries make you claustrophobic,

and book bore you;

the camera flashes and you are

**captivated.**

It makes you look like a dream,

and darling, you _love _it.

Hogwarts opens your eyes to the fact

that there is a **whole** wide world

out there,

waiting for _you;_

it shows you fortune and fame,

and Rose, you are trapped.

It shows you that there is more to magic than _Expelliarmus,_

and there are more colours than

**red&gold.**

Your family don't see that,

but maybe you do,

and you want it, sweetie.

You realise,

in your first year, second, maybe fifth, that _yes,_

you like your books

and your cleverness,

but there is _more _to life.

There is so much more out there, and you're **the lucky one - **

you're going to find it.

.

They tell you to _hold back;_

everyone but Daddy dearest, at least,

who tells you to

**-"go get 'em, tiger!" -**

Maybe he understands.

Maybe he doesn't.

But he tells you to **get out of London, get out of England - **

he shows you _gold_ and Golden Globes,

and all the Muggle things that

secretly fascinate him.

He says he's famous in your world;

he says he'll never be in the other.

He can't change either.

But _you can._

Rose, sweetheart, you have that chance.

And Daddy says, if you want it...

He's not **ever** going to stop you.

.

Hugo _begs _you;

little Hufflepuff Hugo,

who watches you from the sidelines,

who sees his cousins fall apart _helplessly _and -

and **needlessly.**

Hufflepuff Hugo,

who couldn't tell you to _stop!_

when he should've.

He doesn't say a word

and paints his room the most horrendous shade of yellow

you've ever seen, dear,

(the yellow of sunshine and eggs sunny-side-up and taxi cabs)

but it shines **brighter** than

your plain red walls ever could.

Because he may be Hufflepuff Hugo,

but he's _happy, _

Rose,

and he's humble and humorous

and he's Hugo, who goes above and beyond,

and you've only ever been Rosie.

**Red Rose,**

who's rebellious and reckless and resentful,

and not at all happy.

_Rose Red,_

who paints her bedroom the colours of roses,

and Gryffindor, and passion,

but also the colour of war, and blood,

and **the lucky one,**

and maybe even a girl who _doesn't belong_.

.

So you leave them behind, Rosie,

you scrape through your seventh year,

get on that big red train,

then buy the cheapest train ticket

to Heathrow.

There, you buy the earliest ticket

out to **New York.**

And you get on that plane - plain white -

and watch England _fall_ beneath you.

You end up new in town,

with a made up name

(you choose Lily because lilies are white,

and lilies are pure,

and Uncle Harry's mother never ran away)

in an angel's city.

Another name goes up in lights,

another **Broadway** show,

another movie actor searching for the next pay check,

drunk on summer and champagne.

_Cheer up_, Rosie, sweetie;

yellow doesn't shine quite so bright

here in New York City.

Darling,

you are** the lucky one.**

Right?

.

Scorpius told you, once,

that you could've been a rock star,

if you had the nerve to fall.

Instead, you keep waking up at 4AM,

on the right side

of the wrong bed,

in some cheap motel you _probably_ used to vent about.

Once upon a time,

you were the girl who sold lemonade

on the corner of the street.

But now,

yours is the life of a **star**; now, look at you.

You went and fell too far.

You wanted fame and you _got _it, sweetheart,

but what exactly did you pay for it?

Your lover in the foyer doesn't even know you,

and your secrets,

well -

they don't remain **secret** for long, do they?

Splashed across the front pages

of every magazine,

in both worlds, _every world. _

And darling,

Rosie,

they tell you that you're lucky,

but you don't feel pretty;

you just feel used.

Who knew you'd ever end up like this?

Your clichéd **Hollywood** moment

is coming to a close.

_Are you ready to take your bow?_

.

Rosie, you act so innocent,

like a **puppet** on a thread,

but you trick yourself into believing that...

well,

that you're in _control._

You're not, sweetie.

You're not even close.

Hermione doesn't want you to be a girly-girl

(maybe even wants you to make a name for yourself)

and guess what?

That's _exactly_ what you're doing.

But she didn't want you to fall in love, either.

It is clichéd,

and kind of funny,

but you kind of expect **fireworks**

when you're in love.

Love is friendship on fire, after all,

so Scorpius puts you out;

he drowns you, if he has to,

because

**no one**

should love that much.

You are going to burn out - implode -

because you have _fire, _darling,

and don't you forget it.

But the thing is,

Scorpius is more like _ice, _Rosie.

He is so cold,

and though you fit perfectly together,

he melts as soon as he comes in contact with **the flames.**

There is nothing keeping you together -

in fact,

you're moving further apart.

But you just can't let go,

because in this big, wide world,

a fire is _raging_,

and he doesn't want to melt just yet.

Scorpius -

Rose, you say you want him to save you.

You always say that girls like you

aren't content to wait in towers,

but you can't live like this -

lying and hiding and burning and melting and _dying._

You are trapped,

Rosie darling,

and how can Scorpius save you here?

He **can't**, angel.

.

You left him;

you left him and all his _broken_ dreams.

He tended to other roses -

the flower kind,

not **Rose Red** kind -

and lived a better life than you ever did.

Go back,

sweetie;

go back to your roots and all you took from them.

Go back to _England_ and _London_,

Hogwarts and the cousins you left behind.

See what you find.

They don't resent you, Rosie,

but they _pity_ you;

maybe you're not **the lucky one** after all.

You search for Scorpius -

he teaches now, did you know?

Herbology.

Not Potions; not Defence Against the Dark Arts.

They still tell the legend,

don't they, darling,

of how Scorpius disappeared.

He was supposed to get on a plane,

follow you to NYC,

and all its _broken_ promises.

Instead, he took his money and his dignity

(guess which one you still have)

and got the **hell** out -

you were only going to drag him down with you,

and sure,

you could drag him to the top of the _Empire State_,

have his name on the highest billboard,

get his face in the New York Times.

But you're six feet under,

**dear**,

and those posters won't help you now.

.

He bought a bunch of land somewhere

(chose _rose_ gardens over **Rose** Weasley)

and became an expert,

because he always liked plants,

do you remember?

'Course you don't, dear.

Why was that important anyway?

You didn't understand then.

You don't now.

But you _will_.

Your name is up in lights,

but what does that mean?

Hufflepuff Hugo is engaged, you know,

to a pretty pureblood with a heart of **gold**.

Scorpius is _so happy,_

which is why you watch from his picket fence,

and don't venture inside,

because you're a ghost,

a ghost of...

of memories and times you'd rather forget.

Meet up with your family,

perhaps -

Roxanne's married, now,

to a Chaser named **Charlotte**,

and Teddy and Victoire are expecting a _daughter_, did you know?

You missed their wedding too.

Albus has got his act together;

moved in, in fact, with his **Muggle** girlfriend.

Fred's taken over the joke shop.

Lucy and Louis are still at school.

James and Dominique have gone off on some _adventure_,

and Molly dances now,

on **stage**.

She's with Lysander Scamander;

Lily is tiptoeing around his brother, Lorcan.

You've spent so long living in the _headlines_,

you've forgotten

what it's like, down here,

on earth.

.

Darling, _Rose_,

you aren't quite ready for your close up -

you're scared of what you'll find.

You're **the** **lucky one,**

Rosie,

but you're not the happy one.

Not Rose _Malfoy_,

living behind that picket fence,

being a bridesmaid at your own cousin's wedding,

playing aunt and godmother,

being the girl you've **forgotten** along the way.

You're famous,

but what does that mean?

You run from cameras,

live in your penthouse, afraid of the light;

you ignore your family,

the family you played _hide and seek_ with,

the cousins you loved,

and hated,

and the brother you coddled and detested,

and the parents you fought for and fought with,

and the adults you miss and resent.

What kind of life is this?

You think maybe Scorpius got it **right**.

.

Look down, Rosie,

and scrunch up the tabloids in your hands.

You've allowed yourself your _clichéd_ Hollywood moment.

**Let it go!**

Knock on his door, and _apologise, _beautiful.

Find time for tea,

chat about old times,

and open your eyes to the London rain.

Sit and watch all those people

chasing fortune and fame,

laughing about their money and their **luck** and their loss of dignity.

Ignore them, Rosie;

don't mind them and their naivety.

Your red hair is tied up in a messy ponytail,

and your cheeks are tear stained,

and your coat is

draped over the back of _his _armchair,

and honey,

you've **honestly** never been better.

Scorpius beams down at you,

and your eyes glisten,

with tears or maybe just rainwater.

_You're going to be okay,_

Rosie dear,

with Scorpius and fire, rose gardens and legends.

You're going to be **the lucky one** after all.


End file.
